The Little Things
by enigma731
Summary: Sometimes they're all that matter. Hundred drabble series. Second 2.09 episode cap added.
1. Beginnings

_Author's Note: This is the first in a series of a hundred drabbles, based on a table of prompts that I originally did for a RENT fanfic challenge. Bones just seemed to lend itself to the same type of exercise, so I decided to do it again all on my own. Most of these will tie into episodes which won't be directly mentioned. If it sounds familiar, you're probably right. There is no particular plot or timeline outside of each drabble, so don't look for one. It'll be muchly confusing. I hope, after all of this rambling, that you enjoy. _

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**001. Beginnings**

"There is no possible way you can be sure." Special Agent Seeley Booth stares at the fragmented skeleton on the table in front of him. The jaw is partially dislocated, hanging out of the joint. He could swear the dead guy is laughing, taunting his inability to come up with the hard evidence necessary.

"Surer than you'll ever be with purely circumstantial evidence." She says it with that smug little quirk of her brow that makes him want to smash a fist into the middle of the bones. As if this case hasn't been frustrating enough without her reminding him of his failure to come up with the necessary facts.

"I can't, Bones. This is too important for me to take it on the word of a squint." He starts to leave, but she stops him, somehow making it all the way around the table and into his path before he can get more than two steps away.

"So, what? You're going to let more people die while you go out looking for unnecessary evidence?"

Booth shakes his head, fuming. "When was the last time you set foot outside this lab? Walking to and from your car doesn't count."

She keeps her mouth closed, her forehead lined with irritation.

"That's what I thought." Taking her by the shoulders, he moves her out of his path and turns his back on her.

"If you're wrong about this…" Her voice holds a vague but imminent threat.

He doesn't stop.

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Feedback is always appreciated. Also, if you'd like to beta, please email me. 


	2. Death

**030. Death**

It's sad. This is sad. Two human lives have been lost, and it ought to be tragic.

She stares at the bones laid before her on the table, momentarily letting her eyes become just unfocused enough to let the images mix with the cold, hard facts in front of her. They were a couple, curled around one another as they died. She can see their love, their loyalty, their devotion, even in these blackened, slime-coated skeletons filling her lab with the pungent stench of decay.

In her mind's eye, she sees her parents, clinging to one another in a ditch somewhere, making one final attempt at saving their love.

For a moment, she feels the sadness.

"Bones?" It's Booth's voice that shatters her reverie, and for a moment she's struck by the bizarre image of the skeletons speaking to her. "What did you find?"

Then the mask snaps back into place, and they revert to inanimate objects. Pieces of a puzzle that's hers alone to solve.

"I can now confirm that this was a murder-suicide." She takes a breath, and prepares to rattle off the facts.

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Since I noticed on the first chapter that I'm getting a lot of hits but not very many reviews, we'll try it this way. As soon as I get ten reviews for this drabble, I'll post the next one. Otherwise it will be up on Friday.

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	3. Dinner

**058. Dinner**

"The victim's fingers were cut off and forced down his throat while his wrists and ankles were bound. The cause of death was asphyxiation." She twirls her chopsticks expertly, getting the noodles from the bowl to her mouth without so much as a drop of broth out of place.

Booth nearly chokes, suddenly picturing fingers ground up to make the meat for the dumpling he's about to eat. He looks over at Brennan to find her regarding him with the vaguely smug look that says she knows she's just done brilliant work. Her eyes sparkle, green in the yellowish light from the candle in the middle of their table. When he remains silent, she quickly plunges her chopsticks back into her bowl, fishing determinedly for some bit of food he can't see. As always, she's most animated while talking about corpses, he notes with a faint smile.

"What?" Brennan freezes with another bite of noodles halfway to her mouth, having noticed his expression.

"Nothing." Booth doesn't want to see the look that means she's disappointed in his squeamishness.

"_What_?" Persistent as ever.

"Just…you," Booth hedges.

"Me?" Unease creeps into her eyes, and is gone just as quickly. Nearly too fast to be seen. But Booth always sees.

"Remind me never to have dinner with you when I actually want to eat." But he takes a bite of the dumpling, and somehow it tastes even better than usual. He gives her his best real smile, delighting in knowing what she wants. "Great work, Bones."

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So um...that worked better than I expected. Thank you. Let's do it again. Ten reviews and I'll post the next one. Even if that happens to be fifteen minutes from now. 


	4. Too Much

033. Too Much

"I can do that." Booth reaches to take the stack of paperwork from her hands.

Brennan hugs the file folder to her chest and tips her chin up defiantly. She can't fathom Booth arguing over case paperwork; a few months ago he would have been spouting off lines about spending this time with someone he actually _cares_ about.

"It's no problem," she insists, even as his hand freezes over hers, still holding onto the file.

"That's gonna take you hours." His fingers slide down her wrist, slipping just beneath the sleeve of her suit jacket. His hand turns slowly in place, the tips of his nails tickling to a stop just over the place where she knows he can feel her pulse.

"Why do you want to help me with paperwork?" It comes out clumsily, any excuse for noise, because the silence is becoming too much.

Booth doesn't answer, but takes another step closer, tilting his head until she can feel his breath against her forehead. He's going to kiss her, she thinks, and panics. It's not as if it's unexpected; he should have kissed her long before now. Contrary to assumptions, Brennan actually has a very good idea how romantic relationships work, at least by studying them from afar.

He's going to kiss her, and she's going to like it, and it will be a huge relief to finally have it done with. But it won't end there. It will be the start of something epic and tragic, passionate and painful. It will begin with him becoming the first man to kiss her in her office and live to tell; a grin on Angela's face and hindsight-biased conspiracy theories from Hodgins. It will end with her prone on the floor in front of a withered Christmas tree, sobbing because all she has left in the world is encased in garbage bags.

Brennan hands over the folder and takes a step away. Booth rocks back on his heels, and she knows he senses the raw disappointment hanging in the air. But they're safe now. Better to ensure the future than live one dangerous, glorious moment that will flash and burn away into eternal night. They both know this.

"Thank you," says Brennan softly, and flees her own office.

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Please review! 


	5. Friends

021. Friends

Booth can't wipe the idiotic grin off his face. Russ is looking at him strangely, but he can't seem to care. The book is dedicated to _him_. Suddenly it makes sense that Brennan won't let him see it until it comes out. Because that would require her to rationalize and justify the fact that she's dedicated her second novel to the man she pretends to just tolerate for the sake of her career.

"To us," says Booth, as Brennan hands him a beer.

"Whoever the hell we are," adds Russ.

"To what we're becoming," says Brennan, giving him a rare smile.

Booth grins back, the knowledge of those two typed lines thrumming through his blood faster than the purest alcohol. They are becoming something, he knows.

But they are already friends.

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Please review. 

The next post will be a post-ep for tonight's episode.


	6. Heart

**047. Heart**

Booth pulls the little package out of his pocket as they near his car. He'd planned on giving it to her the moment she arrived in her office, but the little bit of conversation he'd overheard as she and Angela had approached had been—distracting, to say the least. Not to mention the discussion which followed.

"Bones, wait." She's already made her way around the passenger side of the black SUV, staring expectantly at him when she realizes that the door is still locked.

"What?" Her brow wrinkles as he follows her around the side of the car, a look of annoyance creeping into her eyes when she catches sight of the little red bag in his hand were his keys ought to be. "I thought we had a case."

"We do." He waits for her to take the package from his outstretched hand, feeling strangely foolish. Booth has never been a man to doubt himself, but all bets are off when it comes to matters regarding Temperance Brennan. "But, you know, it's Valentine's Day, and I…got you a little somethin'."

Brennan tears the red tissue paper off the bag of candy hearts and looks up to roll her eyes at Booth. He shrugs sheepishly, having expected nothing less from his partner. Truthfully, he isn't sure why he's even bothered, knowing that she won't put any stock in the holiday, much less in sugared three-word endearments. But in light of recent events, he feels the need to defend the right to give her meaningless gifts.

"You know," says Brennan, in that voice that means he's about to be disillusioned, "the human heart looks nothing like this. It's completely asymmetrical, and much more elongated."

"And Jesus wasn't actually born on Christmas Eve." Booth sighs. "It's symbolism, Bones. You're a writer. Can't you appreciate that?"

"It's scientifically incorrect!" she argues, tearing open the bag anyway.

"You're a holiday killer, Bones," says Booth.

"You're just bitter because Valentine's Day is a celebration of sexual exploits, and you haven't had sex since you broke up with Cam." Perfectly matter-of-fact.

Booth chokes, masking his reaction with an unconvincing cough. "That's none of your business."

Brennan shrugs and pulls out a white candy heart, holding it like a piece of delicate evidence between two fingers. _Let's Kiss, _says the heart. "Happy Valentine's Day, Booth." She puts it in her mouth and chews.


	7. Breakfast

**056. Breakfast**

"You cook?" Brennan's eyebrows quirk incredulously, but she perches on the edge of the couch. Booth is keenly aware of her eyes on his back as he makes his way over to the small kitchen, wondering why he's brought her here of all places. But she obviously has no interest in going to a restaurant, and he can't bear to leave her alone knowing she's just been abandoned again.

"I've been told I make excellent toast and eggs," he says to the inside of the refrigerator, smiling to himself at the memory of steaks and Wyatt's grill. "Scrambled or over-easy?"

"I'm fine, Booth," she says, ignoring the question. "You don't have to be nice to me."

"Scrambled," he decides, tapping butter into the frying pan. The eggs sizzle as he breaks them over the side, not quite easing the weight of the silence that's rapidly growing in the room. "Creepy tradition, pairing off the dead," Booth says, opting for the safety of the case, though they've more than exhausted the topic already.

"Angela seemed to like it," says Brennan absently.

"Angela would." He lifts the pan off the burner, watching the egg white turn cloudy before puncturing the yoke with a spatula.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just, you know, Angela really goes for that kind of thing. Soul mates, true love, all the big epic romance stuff. You know, it makes sense to her. She's an artist." He flips the eggs out onto a plate, and puts two pieces of bread into the toaster, waiting for her reply. When it doesn't come, he goes back to the refrigerator for strawberry jelly, not bothering to ask this time. He thinks about confessions and sailboats, and wonders how he could still be naïve enough to believe that toast and eggs will do anything to help. The toast startles him when it pops, and he spreads the jelly on too quickly.

Booth takes the plate into the living room, stopping short at the sight of Brennan asleep on his couch. He smiles as he sets the plate softly down on the table. Brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ears, he pulls the afghan from the back of the couch and settles it over her, preparing himself for a day of silence.


	8. Choices

**086. Choices**

The pain washes over Booth as the sirens grow louder outside, the sound of Max Keenan's hurried footsteps lost in the growing commotion. The pressure of Brennan's hand burns into his shoulder like the red-hot poker, shattering his shell of carefully constructed numbness. Shame and rage twist his gut, more painful than the injuries he's been refusing to acknowledge.

Nothing hurts more than this total loss of control, of power even over his own body. A stupid mistake, an underestimation, and all because of the asinine need to prove himself in light of recent events. He always gets in trouble when he's feeling the most responsible. He ought to have figured that out by now.

"Booth?" Brennan's hand tightens on his shoulder, her voice filled with concern, and he wonders how long she might have been trying to talk to him. She does something with a knife, and his hands are suddenly free.

"Yeah," he grunts, sitting up, vaguely aware of other agents pouring in the door. He thinks of Max, and wonders for a moment whether Brennan is going to hate him for unknowingly bringing them back together. But then Booth thinks that she must understand, knows as well as he does what it's like clinging to whatever it takes. Realizes only now that he's been waiting for her all along.

"You're going to have to see a dentist now," she says, wincing as she brushes feather-light fingers over his jaw. "But your injuries appear to be minimal, all things considered. They weren't very good torturers. I've seen cases where—"

Booth cuts her off, ignoring the pain in his head as he leans over to wrap numb arms around her. Their last conversation about hugs skitters instinctively through his mind, and he thinks he just might be admitting to being scared. But then her hand comes up to tangle in his hair, and he knows he won't be thinking of anything else for a very long time.


	9. Drink

**060. Drink**

Brennan waits at the hospital, though nobody's asked. She worries that she ought to go back to the Jeffersonian and finish the falsified report, just in case anyone's started wondering exactly how she managed to find her missing partner when his own people couldn't. She realizes then that she hasn't told Booth about her lie, hasn't even thought about it, she's so certain he'll cover for her in his debriefing.

"Bones." Brennan jumps at the sound of his voice behind her. She glances at the clock, realizing she's lost several hours in her turmoil of thoughts. "You're still here?"

She nods once, sharply, and gets to her feet. "Ready?"

Booth gives her a confused look, and she has to suppress a fresh wave of anger at the dark shadows of bruises beginning to show on his cheek. "To go where?"

Brennan pauses for a long moment, then makes her best educated guess. "Breakfast? The diner will be opening in a few minutes."

He smiles, then winces a little. "You know, Bones, you could lose your job for lying to the federal government. Or worse."

"Breakfast?" she repeats.

His hand brushes over the small of her back, propelling her forward as he starts to walk. "Coffee sounds really good right about now."


	10. Okay

**098. Writer's Choice (Okay)**

Brennan's still awake, sitting at her computer and staring at a blank screen that ought to be page 279 of her current novel, when the knock comes. She doesn't jump, doesn't catch her breath, doesn't do anything typical of a woman who's recently spent twelve hours buried alive.

Booth is fidgeting on her when she peers through the peephole, fingering the thin gold chain at his neck.

"The Gravedigger's in custody," he says the instant she opens the door.

"Cam called me."

"Did I wake you?" He seems not to notice that she's still fully dressed, the apartment lit by the glow of her computer monitor. "I was going to stop by the diner, bring some food, but—"

"It's three o'clock in the morning," she finishes for him.

"Yeah." He drops the chain and shifts his hands to his pockets. "I just figured I'd check in, you know, make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine, Booth." Brennan narrows her eyes suspiciously. "If you were worried, you could have just called."

Booth shrugs. "I was on my way home, thought you might need some company. You were buried alive, Bones."

"That was almost a week ago," she counters, the fact that her apartment is by no means on his way not lost on her. "Are you here to reassure me, or yourself?"

"Psychology, Bones." But he hasn't actually answered her question.

"Do you want to come in?"


	11. Lost

_**Author's Note:**_ This drabble is dedicated to **Shelly**, because she's got an awesome Bones fic in the works. Feedback is love.

**097. Writer's Choice (****Lost)**

"I take it there's going to be another book?" Booth asks, catching sight of the glowing computer screen.

"Should be," says Brennan, quickly minimizing the open document before he can get close enough to read any of it. But her brow is furrowed, he notices, the familiar spark of life he normally sees in her when discussing her books strangely absent.

"Creative difficulties?" he guesses. He imagines it must be very hard keeping straight everything in the writing of a novel. Hell, he has trouble keeping track of what he's writing in a case file, and that doesn't even involve imagination. He sits on her sofa, jumping when she switches the computer monitor off and the room is plunged into darkness.

"Not exactly." Booth jumps again when the lamp next to him comes on, and he forces himself to take a deep breath as Brennan comes over to sit beside him. She gives him an odd look, then shrugs and continues. "Sometimes when I'm writing…I do things that aren't rational. The characters, the plot—I know what the logical next step is, but sometimes it just feels _wrong. _So I write it another way, and then…then I don't know what to do."

"Temperance…" He locks eyes with her, momentarily forgetting what he's saying. "Art doesn't have to be rational. Shouldn't be."

Brennan frowns, looking young and lost. "But I don't know how to be irrational."

"Temperance," he says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. He takes her hand in both of his and keeps it there. "Have a little patience. You'll know when you've got it right."


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